


Say Yes

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Cute, Elliott Smith, Fluff, M/M, Songfic, cute & short pls read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:23:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I remember when Elliott Smith played Miss Misery at the Academy Awards back in 1998 when I was 16 or 17. He looked so small and out of place, old Elliott, just him and his guitar and words full of douleur on that huge empty stage backed by bright lights and playing for an enormous audience.That’s how Ryan looked playing his guitar on the street corner, out of place and so, so small.





	1. Bled White

**Author's Note:**

> is this just an excuse to write about how much of an elliott smith stan i am? yes
> 
> please enjoy. feedback is veryveryvery appreciated.

It was a little sad how much excitement I derived from the simple prospect of a new route to work.

Days were slow and repetitive and so, so monotonous in my little corner of the city that I’d come to know like the back of my hand, traversed every single day and grown bored of. And so one day, completely spontaneously, I asked myself, “what if I don’t take the number 2 bus down Division?” and that was it. Groundbreaking. 

Light rainfall is a typhoon in the desert.

And as I strolled down the street, seeing the same buildings from slightly different angles and proximities, hearing the same sounds a couple streets over like a cover for a familiar song—it was a little disappointing. Well. That’s what I get for only going two blocks in my search for something life-altering, I supposed. 

But, then. That’s not so familiar—in the negative connotations of the word, at least. Yes, I recognized the tune; and yes, it’s not terribly uncommon to come across someone on a street corner, playing their heart out on a guitar or flute or, hell, one guy had an entire synthesizer set up right on the corner outside a Safeway once. If you don’t give people a stage, they’ll make one for themselves.

I watched the man’s (boy’s? He looked young, couldn’t be past his very early 20s, about my age if not a couple years younger) fingers slide nimbly up and down the neck of his guitar, playing animatedly, foot tapping along on the pavement.

It took me by surprise when he opened his mouth and started to sing—he had a smooth voice, calm and thin, straining a bit to hold certain notes, but melodic and heartful when he sang about the bled-white city. 

“To a yesterdaydream—yesterday’s dream is just a waste of time…”

And that was it, a bus thundered past, roaring over the sound of the boy’s voice and putting me back on my way.


	2. Miss Misery

I passed by the same way again the next day, with a little hopefulness that I may re-encounter that cornerside guitarist and trying not to get carried away with the thought, as not to set myself up for disappointment, or jinx my chances were any higher power trying to overhear my thoughts.

And apparently I kept quiet enough. 

He was sat there again, curled into his guitar almost protectively, fingers meeting strings with fragility and reverence. His hands were high up the neck and chords stayed low. His key was minor.

“But it’s alright, cause some enchanted night, I’ll be with you.”

I remember when Elliott Smith played at the Academy Awards back in 1998 when I was 16 or 17. He looked so small and out of place, old Elliot, just him and his guitar and words full of douleur on that huge empty stage backed by bright lights and playing for a huge audience. He'd lost to Celine Dion, which was a terrible injustice. But it was always easier to imagine him quietly pouring out his heart in the corner of a smoky bar, all dim lights and sepia tones, just some hole-in-the-wall place in Portland, melancholy tunes accompanied by the ambience of low indiscernible voices and glasses clinking together.

That’s how the boy looked, out of place and so, so small.

I crossed the street and dropped a couple of dollars into the jar he’d set by himself for change. He kept on playing.


End file.
